Justice Burning (Darren Street Book 2)

by Scott Pratt

  “He threatened to kill you? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Ask him,” Rupert said. “If he ain’t a liar, he’ll tell you he threatened to kill me.”

  “Mr. Street?” the judge said.

  I stood and cleared my throat. “As I recall, just as we were finishing up our final preparation at the jail yesterday evening, Mr. Lattimore first threatened to stomp my ass into the floor. I believe I told him that probably wouldn’t go well for him because I’d spent some time in prison and know how to defend myself. After that, he spit in my face. Then he said when he escaped he was going to look me up late at night. I took that as a threat on my life, and I told him I’d be waiting with a pistol. So yes, I suppose you could say I threatened to kill him. I think it’s fair to say emotions were running high. He’s about to go on trial for his life, and he doesn’t think I’ve done enough to help him.”

  The judge looked at me openmouthed as I waited for the inevitable public humiliation I was about to receive. “So Mr. Lattimore, who is accused of murdering two people, first threatened to physically assault you, then spit in your face, then threatened to escape and come to your home late at night? And you told him you’d be waiting with a gun? Is that correct, Mr. Street?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. That’s pretty much what transpired.”

  “Well, I don’t see how you can represent him under these circumstances. You’re relieved, Mr. Street. The trial is postponed. I’ll find another lawyer and set another date and notify everyone. Mr. Lattimore, I’m going to appoint another lawyer for you, but let me warn you, if you pull this kind of stunt again, you’ll be representing yourself. That’s it. Court is adjourned. Everyone can go home.”

  And with that, we all left. I went through the back to avoid the media and went to my office to fill out the paperwork to bill the state for the 250 hours I’d spent preparing to try Rupert’s case. When I was finished, I went to a bar in the Old City and drank too much, which was something I rarely did. I didn’t really know why. Maybe it was the PTSD Laura Benton had mentioned, but when I walked out of the courtroom, my chest felt tight and I kept grinding my teeth that afternoon. I guess I just needed to unwind. I called Grace around eight o’clock that night, and she came and picked me up.

  “What brought this on?” she said when I got into her car.

  “Not sure. I think the Rupert Lattimores of the world may be getting to me.”

  “You could always do what Laura suggested and find another profession.”

  “When hell freezes over,” I said. “I’m not letting Rupert or any other scumbag run me out of my chosen profession.”

  “It’s your life,” Grace said. “I just want you to live it well. Hanging out in bars isn’t exactly your style.”

  “Can we talk about my mental and emotional frailty tomorrow?” I said. “I just don’t feel like hearing it right now.”

  “Fine,” Grace said. I looked at her and saw her mouth had drawn into a tight line. “As a matter of fact, why don’t you talk with your mother about it, because that’s where I’m taking you. You smell like a brewery. I don’t think I want you in my bed tonight.”

  CHAPTER 4

  It was pure coincidence that at the same time Rupert Lattimore’s case was supposed to be tried in state court, a man named Ben Clancy was going on trial for murder in federal court. Clancy was a former prosecutor, a fire-and-brimstone type who built his reputation on convicting murderers and sending them to prison for life or to their deaths. He’d convicted my Uncle Tommy of murdering my Aunt Linda by falsifying and hiding evidence, but when I got old enough to start practicing law, I vowed to get Tommy out of prison. I did it, too, with the help of a brilliant lawyer and former friend named Richie Fels. Once Tommy was out, I went after Clancy in the next election for district attorney and helped a man named Steve Morris beat him.

  Clancy found a way to get me back. After being hired by the United States Attorney, he framed me and convicted me for a murder I hadn’t committed. Ben Clancy was the primary reason I spent two years in prison. But when I was exonerated, he was arrested, and now he was standing trial for what he’d done to me.

  Since I’d been planning on trying Rupert Lattimore’s case during the entire week, my schedule was clear, and I could have taken in some of Clancy’s trial. I decided against it because I didn’t want to deal with the inevitable questions the media would ask me. I also couldn’t bear the thought of looking at Clancy’s face. I’d seen him on the television news a couple of times. He looked older and frailer, and he’d lost quite a bit of weight in jail. The thought of seeing him in person, however, nauseated me. I stayed at the office, caught up on paperwork, studied appellate opinions that had come down recently that might impact some of my clients, met with a few new prospects, and agreed to take two cases—a vehicular homicide that had some legitimate issues, and an arson case that appeared so circumstantial I didn’t think the client would ever be convicted.

  The Clancy trial was moving quickly, and on Wednesday, it appeared to blow up in the prosecution’s face. My former friend, Richie Fels, was representing Clancy, which meant Clancy had put up at least $200,000 for Richie’s fee. On Wednesday, James Tipton, who had lied through his teeth during my trial but had been coerced and threatened by Clancy to do so, took the stand against Clancy. From everything the television news and the papers said, Richie crushed him on cross-examination. Richie was able to make him admit that nearly every word out of his mouth during my trial was a lie. Once a liar, always a liar, Richie inferred to the jury. If he was willing to lie then, why should anyone believe him now? Richie was also able to make James admit that he’d been a drug dealer for a long time. James said he’d quit, but juries don’t like liars and they like drug dealers even less. Richie took the federal government’s case and flipped it on its ear. The case started on Monday, went to the jury on Friday afternoon, and within two hours, the jury was back with a verdict.

  Clancy was acquitted. He was free.

  As soon as the news broke, I got a call from my mom. “Are you all right, Darren? I just heard about Ben Clancy.”

  “I’m fine. I expected it.”

  “It just isn’t fair,” she said. “What is wrong with this system? It sends my brother to prison for almost twenty years for something he didn’t do, and it sends my son to prison for something he didn’t do. And now Clancy walks away free, and he’s guilty as sin.”

  “It isn’t perfect,” I said.

  “Perfect? It isn’t even adequate. There has to be some reform.”

  “It’d be impossible to change the American judicial system much, especially the criminal justice system. There’s just too much money involved now, too many special interests. Policy makers are bought by lobbyists, and the next thing you know, more and more people are going to jail, and more and more jails are being built. The parole and probation systems are huge rackets, the court costs and fees are out of control. It’s a mess.”

  “I think you should get out,” she said. “I agree with that psychiatrist you talked to. Go back to school and become a doctor or pharmacist or an engineer. You’re smart. You can do anything you want, and I’ll help you every way I can.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mom, but I think I’ll stick it out a little while longer. Somebody has to fight for people who can’t fight for themselves.”

  “Where do you think this hero complex came from?” she asked.

  “Probably from having to deal with the man you married a long time ago.”

  She was quiet for a few seconds. “You’re probably right about that. Biggest mistake of my life, but if I hadn’t married him, I wouldn’t have you. So you take the bad with the good, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you and tell you I love you. You’re still planning to take Grace out tonight, right?”

  “I am.”

  “So I’ll see you sometime tomorrow?”

  “Probably late morning.
”

  “I love you, Darren. Have a good night.”

  “I love you, too, Mom.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The day Clancy was acquitted was Grace Alexander’s birthday. She and I had developed a romantic relationship that had begun very subtly during my trial and incarceration and blossomed over the past year and a half. It was also my weekend with Sean, but his mother had taken him to Dollywood over the fall break. I knew how much Sean loved Dollywood and the Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge area, so I agreed to forgo my visitation that weekend as long as she would let him stay an extra weekend the following month. They wouldn’t be back until Sunday afternoon.

  On that Friday, Grace picked me up at my mother’s house around 7:00 p.m.—my car was dying a slow and painful death—and we drove downtown to Market Square. I’d made us a reservation at The Oliver Hotel, which I’d heard was quaint, had excellent service, and was a little pricey. There was a restaurant adjacent to the hotel called the Oliver Royale, and I’d also made us a reservation there.

  “Did you hit the lottery?” Grace said as we waited for a bottle of champagne to be delivered by our waiter.

  “I’m doing a lot better on the financial front,” I said. “Besides, this is a special occasion.”

  “Really?” she said. “Care to share?”

  “In a little while,” I said. “Let’s eat first and then take a walk.”

  I was looking at her over a candle, and the light caused her green eyes to flicker. She was a lawyer, a criminal defense specialist who worked for the Federal Public Defender. Grace was beautiful no matter what she was wearing and whether or not she was wearing makeup or lipstick. But that night she was absolutely exquisite. I’d asked her to dress up because I was taking her somewhere nice, and she’d taken me seriously—strapless black dress and heels, blonde hair wavy and worn loose, makeup perfect. I had trouble keeping my eyes off her, and I was very much looking forward to helping her out of the dress later on.

  “I heard about Clancy,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged. “It was inevitable. I knew Richie would chew James up and spit him out in front of the jury. At least the feds had the nerve to go through with the trial. They had to know they were going to lose.”

  “How have you been sleeping?” Grace asked. “Still a lot of nightmares?”

  “This thing with Clancy hasn’t helped.”

  “I wish you’d go back and see Laura. She asks about you every time I see her. She really thinks she could help.”

  “No, thanks,” I said as a bottle of Dom Pérignon, vintage 2006, was placed on the table in a bucket. “She said I should be anything but a lawyer. I’m a lawyer. I’m not a quitter.”

  We sat while the waiter went through the ritual of opening the champagne, offering me the cork, pouring a small amount for me to taste, and then filling Grace’s flute and mine.

  “To PTSD,” I said, holding up the flute.

  “To overcoming PTSD,” she said, and I clinked her glass gently. The champagne was perfect, and I took a moment to enjoy the warmth as it slid down my throat.

  “So what are you going to do?” Grace said. “Any strategy or plan for dealing with the PTSD?”

  “Nah, I think I’ll just tough it out,” I said. “Eventually the nightmares will ease off. A lot of guys who have been in the service have overcome it. It just takes time. I’m not a big drinker, so that’s a plus, and I don’t do drugs. I’ve read some about it, and I think if I take decent care of myself and don’t fall into bad habits, I have a good chance of being okay eventually. Besides, sleep is overrated.”

  Grace smiled. “You’re a nut,” she said.

  “You’re right. I really am a nut, and now I have an official diagnosis to prove it.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. You know you can call me anytime. If you can’t sleep, just call and we’ll talk until you’re ready to try again.”

  “Will you talk dirty to me?”

  “I’ll say anything you want.”

  She would have, too. She was one of the kindest, most considerate people I’d ever met. And she was fun and mischievous and sexy as hell. She was thoughtful and smart and athletic, and we shared a lot of common interests in things like books and movies and University of Tennessee sports. Music, not so much. She loved classical music. I’d tried to wrap my mind around Mozart and Beethoven and Chopin, but I just couldn’t feel it. I was more of a Southern rock and country guy. But outside of that, we were a great match. My mom was crazy about her, and Sean thought she hung the moon. Katie was so jealous of her I could tell she wanted to spit every time Grace’s name was mentioned, especially if Sean said something nice about her.

  We took an hour and a half, lingering over an excellent gourmet meal, and polished off the bottle of Dom. When we were finished, we went outside and strolled through Market Square. We walked by a bench and I asked her whether she’d like to sit for a second. It was early November, but a warm front had rolled in and it was in the midsixties.

  “How’s your mother?” she asked.

  “She’s good except for the cat.”

  “I hated to hear about Tink,” Grace said.

  Tink was a tabby my mother had owned for eight years. She’d died suddenly of cancer a couple of weeks earlier, and my mother had taken it pretty hard.

  “She’s had time to grieve,” I said. “I’m going to the shelter tomorrow morning to get a kitten. That’ll brighten her up.”

  “You’re sweet,” Grace said.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I said as we sat down on the bench. “What do your parents really think of me?”

  Grace’s dad was a law professor, sharp as a tack, and her mom was a physician’s assistant. They lived very comfortably in San Diego. I’d visited with Grace twice, and while they seemed to tolerate me, I didn’t exactly get the sense that I was what they had in mind for their baby girl.

  “They don’t really know you, Darren,” she said. “But they respect my judgment. I think they worry about you because they know what you went through. But they’re open-minded people, and they’re not judgmental. Why do you ask?”

  I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a small wooden box. I dropped to one knee in front of her.

  “Because I’m in love with their daughter and would like to marry her,” I said as I opened the box. It had a small LED light in it and revealed a one-and-a-half-carat diamond that had cost me a small fortune. Grace’s eyes widened.

  “I love you, Grace Alexander, and can’t imagine living without you,” I said. “I know I’m not perfect and I bring some baggage, but I promise I’ll work hard to overcome it. Will you marry me? I love you more than I can put into words.”

  Tears slid down both of her cheeks, and she wrapped her arms around my neck. She pulled back for a second, and then kissed me in a way that was transcendent. I’d never felt that way before.

  “Yes,” she said. “I love you, too, Darren Street. The answer is yes.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Donnie Frazier and Tommy Beane had been in town for two days, just enough to make sure the information they’d received on Darren Street was accurate and to do a little surveillance. As they drove by the white house on Boyd Station Road at two in the morning, they both felt fortunate. It was on a large piece of property, with the nearest neighbor being at least a half mile away. A railroad track ran down the opposite side of the road, so there were no houses at all on that side of the road for a five-mile stretch.

  “I hope there ain’t no damned yappy dog inside there,” Frazier said.

  Frazier was a thirty-three-year-old beanpole of a man with long, sandy-blond hair. Six months earlier, he’d been released from the Northern Correctional Facility in Moundsville, West Virginia, after serving twelve years of a sixteen-year sentence for second-degree attempted murder.

  Frazier’s brother, Bobby Lee Frazier, had stabbed Darren Street eleven times with an ice pick during an altercation in Street’s cell when they were in the same f
ederal maximum security prison in Rosewood, California, a year and a half earlier. Bobby Lee wound up getting his throat cut by Street’s cellmate during the fight, but the cellmate later hanged himself. Donnie Frazier yearned for revenge for his brother’s death, and Street was the only person left alive.

  Frazier looked over at his cohort, Tommy Beane. They’d grown up together in Cowen, West Virginia. Frazier thought Beane was stupid, but he tolerated him, mostly because he just didn’t have many friends. Beane was a burglar by trade, a lifelong thief and thug. He was short and thick, barrel-chested and heavily muscled, with black hair that he combed straight back, dark eyes, and muttonchop sideburns. The Frazier boys and Beane were all high school dropouts by the age of sixteen and had partied together, broken into houses and businesses together, and hurt people together. Theirs was a bond of redneck sociopathy—violence, and indifference to the lives of others. Beane had actually had a real job once. He’d worked for Archland Coal in Cowen for two years. It was during his tenure at Archland that he’d learned how to handle explosives. He also knew where Archland kept its dynamite and blasting caps, and just a few days earlier, Donnie had taken advantage of Beane’s knowledge and experience. He’d talked Tommy into breaking into Ashland’s warehouse, and they’d stolen fifty pounds of dynamite—more than a hundred sticks—enough caps to ignite them, and a roll of safety fuse.

  Frazier had watched while Beane crimped the fuse into the blasting caps and bound the sticks into two bundles of twenty-five each back at the hotel. They were both sober tonight, and Frazier was dying for a beer. But dealing with high explosives required a steady hand and a clear mind, Beane kept saying. Sobriety actually made Frazier shaky, but he’d agreed to stay sober until the job was done. He figured they would celebrate after Street was dead.

  “His car is in the driveway,” Frazier said as they passed the house a second time. “He’s there. No lights on. Let’s park at that church down the road and walk back.”

  Frazier parked the beat-up, fifteen-year-old green Ford pickup behind the church, and the men pulled two gym bags from behind the seat. They crossed the road and disappeared behind the line of trees that had grown between the railroad tracks and the road. Once they reached the house, they ducked beneath the deck out back, slithered on their bellies up under the crawl space, and placed the dynamite near the center of the house. Beane then rolled out thirty feet of safety fuse and lit it, and the two men took off running. They made it back to their car in a little less than ten minutes. Frazier jumped in, started the truck, and pulled up near the road with the lights off.